Down They Fell
by run.dog.run
Summary: When a simple mission turns into something much more dangerous, three of Konoha's rising generation are lost. How do the rest deal with the tragedy in the following days? [various characters]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Naruto or anything pertaining to the anime or manga. The characters, places, etc… are not mine, nor do I lay any claim on them. This is not an attempt to infringe on any rights or copyrights, as this is purely for entertainment.

Authors Note: What can I say? Ah hahaha, I suck. --

Again, I've tried something different. I am not used to writing in this way, so forgive the awkwardness. And I warn you now – this experiment in writing was quite unsuccessful. If you manage to trudge through the chapters, and read the entire thing; I humbly thank you for giving my story a chance. - Or, for having the patience to make it to the end, giggles or agitation be damned. So, thank you. (Naruto future, au: I was imagining Naruto and company in their 20's for this story. ) –

Edited/revised chapters 1 and 2 – minor differences – some rewrite, some additions. Corrected _some_ spelling/grammar/etc. in other chapters. :D

Title: 'Down They Fell'

Author: run dog run

Series: Naruto

Characters/Pairings: various characters, various pairings

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Down They Fell 

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"_Does a tree, in autumn, mourn the leaves that fall?"_

1

Three weeks after the treaty revisal with Kusa no Kuni, there was a small skirmish on the border.

A faction of Grass Nin had found the negotiations unsatisfactory and had violated the tentative peace that had fallen between the two nations. Hi no Kuni responded by deploying a small team of Shinobi to the border; their intent was only to quell the uproar with diplomacy. The mission was simply to maintain the peace; they were ordered not to engage in battle unless absolutely necessary.

Necessity arose even before Shikamaru's team had reached the border.

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The soft thud of metal sinking into flesh draws Shikamaru from his concentration; his head spins in the direction of the sound, the motion quick and dizzying, and his eyes catch only a bur of skin and gold hair and a smear of blood that drags his stomach into his throat. Ino's soft cry echoes in his ears as he rushes sideways to catch her in her fall. Her skin is clammy and his calloused fingers pull roughly against that soft flesh as he drags her back into the trees. A bark of breath bubbles from her chest, its edges drawn in bright blood that seeps over rapidly paling lips.

"Ino, Ino! Stay with me." His frantic voice is weak even in his own ears. A shuriken whistles through the air, slicing the breeze with its glittering edge; Shikamaru throws his arm up to catch the spinning blade before it can imbed itself into something vital. Another cough and Ino spatters blood across her chin and his face, but she pushes her self upright and manages a ragged breath; the sound is wet and thick and frightening. Shikamaru can tell she is drowning on her own blood.

"I…fine." Her voice is a weak wheeze between coughs, but she fights for control. Her eyes are hard and her fists are clenched as she forces herself to stand. "…nuff left… one more." Shikamaru doubts she can walk two steps without collapsing, but he doesn't say it; instead he tugs the shuriken from his arm and tosses it to the ground, uses his waning strength to keep her upright.

"You should rest." His voice is strained as he speaks, and his vision blurs momentarily as he forces more of her weight onto his shoulder.

"Dying… Shika." Her hand swipes roughly at her mouth, smears blood and saliva across her cheek. Shikamaru fights against his breath, nearly choking, and shakes his head. Her smile is weak. "I am. Lemme… fighting." _Let me die fighting._ The whole exchange seems unreal, like a nightmare.

The sound of growling echoes somewhere off to the left and a crash shakes the trees. A great mass of fur tumbles past, claws and teeth and fur matted and bloodied. Kiba's scowling face emerges from the tangle, his body pinning a pale haired man to the ground; a moment later and his claws rip the man's throat away. A trail of blood and soft flesh sweeps sideways from the ruined neck.

"How the hell did this happen?!" Kiba's rough voice slices through the air, drags itself across Shikamaru's ears like a growl. "Where the fuck did they all come from?" Shikamaru shifts Ino's weight as gently as he can and frowns.

Intelligence had reported no more than twelve members of the rogue faction, and only half of them were reported to be Jounin level Shinobi. Upon arriving, they had come to the sick realization that there were three times that many members, and more than half of them were Jounin level. A significant percentage of the village had obviously decided that the treaty was worthless – they were preparing to wage a war against Hi no Kuni.

A flurry of motion sends Kiba back against a tree, his shoulders slamming roughly against the stiff trunk; the impact forces his breath out in a rush. A thunder of growls escape Akamaru's wide throat as he streaks across the small space to Kiba; the distance is closed in a matter of seconds. From the other side of the clearing, Shikamaru watches in sick fascination as the sharp hooks of the great dog's claws rake down the enemy nin's back, shredding through clothes and flesh as if the man were but a paper doll; broken bone and ruined flesh jut and spill from the bloody trenches in the man's back. Kiba smirks down at the man's surprise as Akamaru's massive jaws clamp down on the man's neck and shoulder. The beast growls around the body seized in his jaw, slings it sideways into the brush; the man's mouth is stretched in pain, but his voice is silent.

Kiba shoves himself away from the gruesome scene and limps to where Shikamaru waits, takes up Ino's other side, and helps the two into the thick of trees. Ino's slumps to the ground in a gasp of wet breath, her lungs gurgling around the kunai still pushed into her chest. A moment later, her breath stops.

"Ino…?" Shikamaru's fingers tighten on the girls arm; dig into her soft flesh with desperation.

"She's… Shikamaru," Shikamaru watches in silence as Kiba leans in to press his ear to Ino's chest; his slitted eyes drift closed a moment later. When Kiba lifts his head, his eyes will not meet Shikamaru's. "She's gone." _I'm sorry_. Shikamaru can hear the unspoken sympathy in the man's soft tone.

_Sudden, anti-climactic. _Shikamaru chokes on the stray thought.

"Something isn't right. Where are they?" Kiba's voice splits the silence, but Shikamaru ignores him, his cloudy eyes are fixed on still-bright blue orbs.

Ino's eyes are still open, but she cannot see him.

Kiba's hand reaches from somewhere off to the side, his fingers gently slip Ino's eyes closed. Shikamaru turns his head away from the scene; he can't watch. A whisper of motion draws Shikamaru's eyes to the side as Kiba's hand falls on his shoulder. The dark haired man jumps suddenly, unprepared for the contact, and his hand flings up to scrub at his face roughly; his nails scrape across his cheek and leave read lines in the skin. He doesn't notice.

"We have to leave her. Something isn't right." Shikamaru's hands tighten on his thighs as he rises to stand. The air is quiet; even the birds are silent.

"They are regrouping." Shikamaru's brow creases with tension and his eyes flick to Kiba's. "We should retreat, return to Konoha and assemble more teams." Shikamaru fists his hands. "This isn't something we can handle on our own. We're fighting a war with two men and a dog." Kiba's laugh is humorless.

"I pity the army that comes to face us." The arrogance, Shikamaru realizes, is tainted with resolved desperation, hints at the worry that the Inuzuka will not face.

A growl whittles its way into the conversation and Kiba's answering curse sends a chill through Shikamaru's bones. Kiba's eyes are narrow, fierce, when he turns back to his friend.

"Doesn't look like we'll be retreating any time soon." A smile cracks Kiba's face, his fangs peek from between his lips; Shikamaru shudders at the sight. It was, he realized, the smile of a man resolved to his fate. "If we don't make it out of this alive…" He shrugs nonchalantly. "I've always liked you Nara. Always respected you the most out of all the Shinobi of our generation." Kiba's hand waves the words away in a gesture. Shikamaru's lips twist down into a frown.

"We'll make it." Shikamaru's words are low and they disappear quickly into the ambiance of the wood as the dark haired man flings himself into the cover of the canopy above. Kiba's eyes soften a brief moment, his sharp toothed smile dulls and he shakes his head. A moment later he, too, is deep in the forest canopy.

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AN2: I will probably revise or rewrite this and the following chapter at some point… especially if any one can give me some advice on how to re-do Ino's death. I am unhappy with the transition from her sudden death to Shikamaru's reaction. Although, on some level, in a war it might be something equally as quick and confusing – with no time to really react – something feels very off about it and I can't figure it out right now. I think I've looked at it far too much in the past 2 days.

If you are re-reading this for the changes, is the bit with Ino's death any better, or should I switch it back to the way it was? All help is appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I had to split this thing up, because it was too long… especially measured against all the 'chapters' that follow.

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2

"We're gonna die, you know?" Kiba's voice is scratchy, rough. His hands are pressed to his stomach, trying to stem the blood flow; there's a vicious wound in his abdomen from a particularly toxic summon. A Grass Nin had managed to trap both Kiba and Akamaru in a cage of roots and chakra webbing long enough for a comrade to summon a rather large and venomous spider. Its enormous fangs had sunk into Kiba's stomach even before Akamaru could turn in the small space to maul the creature.

"I know." Shikamaru's voice is quiet, resigned.

"You know…" A chuckle rips from Kiba's raw throat suddenly, and Shikamaru has to catch the other man before he tumbles to the ground. "For two dead men and a dog, we've done a lot of damage to that army." Another laugh, softer and more honest, echo's in Kiba's chest. Shikamaru shakes his head softly and drags Kiba back against the trunk of the tree.

"Where is Akamaru?" Shikamaru's black eyes swing away from his wounded friend, sweep the darkening line of trees and branches that encircle them. He feels Kiba shrug and turns to glance back at the other man.

"Dunno… can't hear him anymore." Kiba's breath is steady, despite his critical injury. "He's probably dead by now." Another shrug lifts Kiba's shoulders and his fingers dig deeper into the wound in his stomach. Shikamaru says nothing; he knows Kiba is fighting to sound calm, knows the man is worried about his companion – the concern is so heavy it's almost tangible.

A swirl of wind stirs the leaves of a nearby tree, the whisper of foliage is soft and concentrated; the breeze has no discernable direction, no origin. Shikamaru tenses, his hands clasp tightly to Kiba's body as he searches the low light. _There_. Another swirl of wind, closer this time, stirs another patch of leaves some distance to the right and Shikamaru spots a disembodied shadow.

The inky blackness of a shadow stretches, as if of its own accord, toward the swirling funnel of wind; the finger-like tendrils crooked and clawed as it attaches itself to the strange silhouette. Shikamaru's concentration wavers at the sound of Kiba's muffled cough, but he manages to hold the shadow Jutsu despite his depleted chakra and the aching wounds that trace across his body. _Almost_. The shade merges with the enemy shadow, tangles itself into the chakra, twists its way to the man's hidden body.

"Shika…" Kiba's voice is a hoarse whisper. Shikamaru hisses under his breath, demands silence. The wounded man obeys, but the quiet is tense.

A gasp drifts from the enemy as he finds himself immobile, and slowly his shape emerges from the wavering canopy. Shikamaru doesn't fight the smile that twists his lips; it's as feral and dark as any Kiba could muster to his fanged mouth. Slowly, the shadow forces itself into the paralyzed enemy, creeping like vine into the Grass Nin's body, digging into the muscle, the flesh and bone, until it has filled the man's body with its cool blackness.

The Jutsu will drain him, but it's satisfyingly lethal.

Shikamaru spreads his hands slowly, stretches and swells the shadow within the man; behind him Kiba muffles another growl of pain. Shikamaru has no time to savor this small victory, and has little taste for it anyway; he forces his hands apart quickly as he turns to check on his friend. The spattering of blood reaches across the glen to the two Konoha Shinobi.

A distant howl echoes through the trees, draws shivers to the leaves and Kiba smiles weakly. _Not dead_. Shikamaru's hand squeezes Kiba's roughly in relief before he drags the injured Inuzuka up to his feet.

"We should move." Shikamaru's arm is tight around Kiba's waist, blood drools over his wrist. "Do you sense anything?" Kiba nods his head slowly; his mouth is curled, again, in a cruel parody of a smile.

"They don't know where we are yet." Shikamaru's frown is thoughtful. "I say we surprise them." Shikamaru doesn't mention Kiba's injury; he knows it won't make a difference. He nods in agreement. A hand tightens on Shikamaru's wrist, pries it away. Dark eyes glance down at the still-bleeding wound, the calloused hand griping his wrist.

"If I'm gonna die, might as well be fighting, eh?" Another frown twists Shikamaru's face, and before a word can slip free of his mouth, Kiba's feet touch the ground below. Shikamaru watches the pain flash across the other man's face, watches him fight to keep from collapsing. Startled voices travel from the cover of nearby brush, and in a flash three Nin circle Kiba's crouched form.

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"He's already dead." The Grass Nin's voice is rough with exhaustion, but there is arrogance there too. Shikamaru's crouched body hovers before Kiba's prone form; he dares a glance backward at his friend while the enemy gloats.

The wound in the Inuzuka's stomach is bleeding again, torn wider in exertion and battle - his hand is tight against his stomach; it's the only thing that prevents his insides from spilling out. The venom, too, has taken its toll; the poison in Kiba's body has drained both his strength and chakra. _He is going to die._ Shikamaru pushes the thought away, refocuses his attention on the enemy.

"So are you." The words come out in a growl that rival's Kiba's for fierceness.

"I highly doubt that." A sharp bark of laughter rips from the man's chest. "You have nothing left. No chakra, no weapons. Your partner is bleeding to death on the ground." The man's hand fumbles with pair of kunai. "I tell you what… Since I'm feeling rather generous, I'm going to do you a favor." The smile that stretches the man's lips is winsome. Shikamaru's eyes darken and he grinds his teeth. "I'll kill you both quickly, one kunai each, put you out of your misery. You two can die together."

"Go to hell!" Shikamaru spits the words. Pain lances through his broken ribs and sends him stumbling; his foot slips back on the loose ground and he has to fight to regain his balance. _One more, Kiba. Be ready._ The words stay in his head, and Shikamaru can only hope Kiba understands.

"Suit yourself. A slow death it is." The man's laugh echoes merrily in the darkening wood.

A barrage of kunai sail through the air, their sharp edges nearly howling as they race toward the two Konoha Nin. Shikamaru braces himself, puts the last of his chakra into his muscles and springs sideways to cover Kiba as Akamaru crashes into the clearing. A feral growl, murderous and wild, rips from the large dog; he is all teeth and claws and desperation. His bulk blurs across the clearing in a spray of dirt and debris as he smashes, first into the rightmost Nin, and then tumbles in a mass of howls and surprise directly into the one at Shikamaru's left.

Shikamaru's leap sends him sideways in a flash, four blades sink into his already badly damaged body. The ground rises up quickly, the earth and rock bite into his skin and he feels his shoulder shatter against the ground. Behind him, Kiba sends the last of his kunai screaming across the clearing into the face of the remaining enemy. The surprise on the man's face, as his life drains away, brings a smile to Shikamaru's bruised lips. He watches in satisfaction as the man crumples to the ground.

A hand catches Shikamaru's elbow, the grip is strong and painful, and he feels himself dragged across the ground. The throbbing of his shattered shoulder is forgotten in the waves of pain that accompany the rough haul across the ground. His sight fades and sparks swim in his vision as he's settled against something warm; he can feel something sticky settling into his hair - it's slick against his scalp.

"Shi… Shika…" A strained voice hovers near Shikamaru's ear as he struggles to focus his vision. His eyes catch on the fuzzy form above him - brown hair and pale skin and red smears of color. Kiba's breathing is shallow, but Shikamaru can feel the faint rise and fall of the other man's chest against his shoulder blades. A cough racks Kiba's body and sends vibrations of pain into Shikamaru's limbs. "That was… that was fun." A laugh shakes Kiba's body, degenerates into coughing, into gasps; but he keeps his smile.

The soft thud of paws on dirt shifts in volume until heavy breathing is at Shikamaru's side; he can smell death and earth and something distinctively canine at his side, but he can't manage to turn his head to see it. The large dog collapses to the ground in a huff and Kiba tumbles them both sideways into the warm, filthy fur of the large dog. Shikamaru is suddenly aware that something sticky and warm is seeping into his eyes; he reaches up with a hand to wipe away whatever it is that's running down his face. His fingers find torn flesh and hard bone, but he feels no pain – his hand comes away and his eyes find a dark smear of colorless fluid. He tries to laugh, but nothing comes out.

_The color is gone._

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AN2: From here on out, no more terribly done action. Yay! (Of course, there are plenty of other types of 'terribly done' in the following chapters.) As for the last line - a friend of mine, before he died, complained that he couldn't see color anymore. He had a brain tumor that affected him in rather strange ways; complete colorblindness was one of them. I figure a fatal head injury might do the same thing.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: And so starts the shorter chapters – the ones in which the others confront the tragedy. And just so you know, I adore LeeSaku.

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3

Rock Lee usually wakes early to train; up before the sun and sweating with vigor even before the first rays of light break through the sky to warm the flesh.

Today, however, he can't bring himself to rise, even long after sunlight has flooded through his window to blind him. His arm is tucked beneath his pillow, an angle that makes it hard to roll, and his hand is tingling with pins and electricity; the circulation cut by the weight of his head and a tense pressure that will not abate.

A knock on his door brings his eyes open, bleary and shallow-sighted. He doesn't bother to get up; hopes that whoever it is simply assumes he's already out and training. He let's his eyes slip closed again and swallows the thickness that has risen in his chest. He had always been overly sensitive; his sense of empathy greater than that of the average Shinobi – it set him apart, and it made him stronger in times of need, but it also wore him down and made him tired and made his chest… _ache_.

The sound of his door sliding open brings his eyes open again, and the footsteps that echo through his apartment keep his sticky eyes open; he tries to focus his bleary vision on the folds of his blanket as he waits. Weight settles behind him on the bed, a slight sinking of the mattress pulls him, like gravity, toward the visitor. He can smell the fresh scent of clean morning air pushing toward him in a slight breeze of motion. A cool hand wraps itself about his shoulder and turns him, stiffly, onto his back. His eyes catch on bright strawberry-blonde hair.

"I'm just tired." His bright, sleepy smile rounds the corners of his eyes and plays the gesture false. The effort, however, wins a sad smile in return.

"I know…" Sakura's voice is even more tired than his own. "I... me too." Her hand settles on his arm, and he tightens the muscle unconsciously. The quiet stretches between them for long moments before Sakura speaks again. "Maybe… Maybe a little more sleep _will_ help." Lee watches absently as Sakura lifts the covers and slips beneath them; her hand slides down his arm to grip his wrist, pulls it over her head as she curls her body along his. Her skin is cool and smooth, and Lee is suddenly awake.

"Sakura…" Her voice hisses as she shushes him, and Lee's eyes widen slightly as a slender hand settles against his chest. The numbness of the folded arm starts to fade as Lee finally draws it from its awkward position under his pillow; he pushes it beneath the blankets to cover Sakura's hand with his own tingling one.

"It's too many, isn't it?" Lee's eyes droop at her words. "I mean, all at once..." He knows she just means _too many_, but she's trying to be strong too. Lee tightens his grip on Sakura's hand, tucks his fingers against her palm and curls his arm around her shoulders.

He tries to think of something encouraging to say; something about the power of martyrdom and the passion of youth. Something that would make the tragedy meaningful, but he can think of nothing. He's reminded of the darker side of life, of Shinobi; how they are expendable, how they are inclined to death-for-duty, how in the end, it really is just a tragedy and every misfortune and heartbreak is really all for nothing more than some distant strangers gain. Lee can't say that though; not to her, or himself, or anyone.

Sakura tilts her chin upward, her eyes catching against his; the color of her irises seems faded and Lee hopes it's just because she's tired. The question remains unanswered and eventually Sakura settles her head again and closes her eyes. Lee swallows the tightness in his chest, and let's his eyes slip closed again. He thinks that maybe a little more sleep won't help much, but he's willing to try anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Chouji is kinda hard to write – although… I have absolutely no grasp of character, so that's probably why.

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4

The smell of food is nauseating, and the smell of the hospital room, with its bleach and astringent and stale sterile smells, is even more so.

Chouji's ribs are sore, and his stomach turns with each breath; the random lurching of his gut is an uneven beat against his carefully measured breathing. The retching throws him off, and brings tears to his eyes with each spasm. His fists are balled at his sides, pressing the covers into the stiffness of the hospital bed; the crunch of the plastic mattress cover is almost painful. It reminds him of things that he doesn't want to remember.

He's still so exhausted, so sore; and it hurts to remember.

The light in the room is dim, russet with the color of the sunset drooling in over the window sill to scatter shadows on the wall; shadows that want to be memories. He can see the silhouette of a hand, fingers curling to catch a red-gold ray of light, cupped against palm and shapeless as a cloud. And he can see the shadowy cascade of hair across a shoulder, its feathered ends brushing over the top of his arm in the breeze. Chouji squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath until he can swallow again.

Those are only dreams. A tree branch curled cruelly before the setting sun, crawling into his room in a most unfair reminder. A tattered and threadbare banner, strung lazily up on the awning and casting its ragged cascade of a shadow into the window with the rest; it was once a fish, a wind catcher, but now it is just another hideous reminder.

No one has come to see him since his return, not one single person. Even his own father has refrained from visiting; Chouji is glad. He couldn't bear to hear the placating refrain, the pity, the honest sadness that some of them would bring into his presence; it would be too thick and heavy and he was afraid he'd drown in it all. Chouji is glad no one has come. They would ask him question he wouldn't be able to answer. Some of them would avoid asking questions, as if the wrong words would break him, or them, or everything that they hold onto so tightly.

Chouji fists his hands again and fights another wave of nausea. He's lost thirteen pounds in half as many days, and figures he'll loose even more before he gives in completely, or picks him self up and moves out of the haze.

Another shadow dances across the room, its arms lifting to shatter the illusions on the wall; a bird settles on the branch that makes the hand, blots out the light in a way that blends all the shadows together, merging them into one that spreads itself between each of the cruel dreams. All his shadow friends are gone. His friends, they are gone too.

The ache of ribs under the pressure of his tight breath forces Chouji to bring a hand to his side. His fingers feel cold against his skin, colder even, than their hands had been. Chouji's fingers swirl in his vision, and for a moment he can see himself, two friends weighing him down with their precious weight, and to his side, a red and white blur of fur and blood, another bit of precious cargo pulled across its back.

His body aches, still, and his shoulders can still feel the chillness of flesh and the stiffening of muscle, his ears still ring with grief-stricken howls; he knows that this is something that will never go away.

_At least I brought them home_. The words are in his head, and they bring little comfort. It had taken Chouji two days to find them, and three days to bring them home to Konoha. No one had gone with him; no one had even suspected that they would need to be brought home. Not like that.

Somehow, Chouji had known. And he'd gone to get them, and bring them home.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Guess who "he" is. Yep, I guess it was inevitable I'd put it in somewhere. (Also, keep in mind; none of these later chapters are in any particular order. They all happen over a period of 2 days, but I didn't bother to put them in order of occurrence. Maybe, if it's too confusing or annoying for readers, I'll go back and switch the chapters around to some semblance of chronological order.)

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5

The rain cuts through the air like little crystal needles, slanted and sharp and thin, angled by the wind and set to glitter in the electric flashes of lightning. Her fingertips tap them as they fall, breaking them into tiny shards of water; each shattering, splattering, into tiny beads that cut opposite the slant of rain.

Hinata is under an overhang, her sleeves pulled to elbow, and her arms reaching out from beneath the awning to spar with the rain. Each drop is an enemy, and each hit a fatal one, but there is no pride in her kills, there is no satisfaction. Her hands, she knows, are a blur; her fingers a smudge inside the flickering bubble of shattered raindrops, the sphere of emptiness within, where the rain cannot reach.

But that isn't enough.

A shift in the air behind her brings her hands to a pause; the rain enters the bubble as she relents the controlled space to the weather, and the rain washes over her skin.

"Come inside." Hinata recognizes his voice, but does not turn to greet him, does not blush and cover her smile as she usually does. The cool wetness of the rain forms rivers on her arms, the drops slip over the curve of forearm to collect beneath and drip down to the earth below. Some of the streams run down along her flesh, making trails from her hands back to the crook of her arm. The water that does not soak into her sleeves turns there, races down to her elbow. Hinata watches those drops fall to the ground too.

"I... I need to practice." She does not turn even when he places his hand on her shoulder.

"You'll catch a cold." She will; probably already has. His hand slides down her arm from elbow to wrist; his hands are warm, too warm – and she knows her skin is rain-cold and chilled to the bone. When he reaches her wrist, his chest is pressed to her back; his fingers tighten on her wrist and she allows him to pull her arm close – the other follows as their arms fold together against her chest. "You know it's not your fault. You weren't even there."

"If I… If I were stronger, I would have been." Even if he says it, she still blames herself. His arms tighten around her and she thinks he might crush the breath from her body in that tight hold. It's possessive and painful, and she loves it. The rain that soaks her skin warms beneath his touch, cools where the wind kisses it, dries to damp against her shirt and his sleeves.

"You're strong enough." She knows he simply means that she's strong enough to move on, to survive. Her strength has nothing to do with physical prowess.

The wind pushes harder against the rain and a prickly spray forces its way into her face; the tiny beads of water feel like pins as they slap against her skin. A tug brings Hinata backward, deeper beneath the awning of the porch and away from the rain.

"Come inside." The words are almost enough to prompt Hinata into repeating the entire conversation. _I need to practice. _She only says it in her head, but somehow, she knows he hears it because he tightens his grip again and rests his chin on her shoulder. "Come inside… _please_." His voice is softer, and Hinata wonders when exactly he learned to whisper.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Well… what the hell. Neji: I don't know what to say about him except – difficult!

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6

The cool light of morning breaks through the trees, its pale fingers stretching tiredly between the leaves and branches to cast slanted rays across the ground. The soft glow catches itself in the dew; a glittering reflection much brighter than the milky stream of diffused light that illuminates the early morning fog.

A chill had long since settled into Neji's bones; his limbs are stiff with cold and inflexible, but he pushes himself anyway. His hands create an arch in the air, slicing through the moisture, separating the air from the fog in a rainbow of skin against green and brown forest, and multicolored sunrise. Chill bumps trace their way across his skin and he fights against a shiver that wants nothing more than to rattle his bones and shake loose things he has fought so hard to swallow.

He hears her sigh, even from half-way across the clearing, and drops his arm. Her breath is an echo that, despite the cloying fog, manages to swim its way to his ear and push itself deep into his own lungs. _If it had been her…_ He chooses not to complete the thought. It is enough to have lost comrades; to loose someone even closer would set a crack in his porcelain grace – one that would grow with each passing day until he is useless.

Neji has no room for weakness. His head turns slowly to find her eyes; intense and dark and brimming with a mixture of sorrow and relief. He had almost been sent to his end with them. A scowl of determination paints itself across his face, draws his lips downward. _I would have survived._ That thought is comfort in the same measure that it is accusation. Neji knows he would have survived. In the back of his mind, however, he wonders if any of them would have survived if he _had_ gone with them.

That thought, Neji realizes, feels far too much like guilt.

Her hand flickers in his peripheral vision, a wave that calls him closer. A duck of his head answers her call and he moves slowly to her side; his legs fold gracefully beneath him as he settles into the grass beside her. The ground is damp and cool beneath him, and the stiff, dewy lawn tickles against his skin. She doesn't let the silence linger.

"If it had been you…" Her words echo his thoughts, and Neji wonders if she can read minds; or if it's only his that she can read. Her hand reaches shyly for his, the warm tips of her fingers slide over his digits until they are wrapped firmly around his first two fingers. Neji's eyes slip closed for a moment, his vision inward and contemplative, before he answers.

"It was not me." His voice is as steady as always, no hint of weakness, nothing to indicate that he is not as balanced as he usually is. She shifts closer and Neji can feel her warmth seeping into his shoulder, crawling into his body to warm him.

"We should get back, you know." Her voice is tired, but not weak. Neji tightens his own fingers around hers and feels the subtle increase of her heart rate. From the corner of his eye, he sees her turn toward him, her eyes glossy and her cheeks pale. They are not lovers - he never holds her; he tolerates her affections, her touches, her gestures. He never returns them. _If it had been her… _His fingers tighten even more, and Neji thinks he can feel the bones of her hand grinding, but she doesn't complain.

_If it had been her… _But it wasn't her. It wasn't him, it wasn't Lee. It was _them_.

And that's more than enough pain.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Completely drew a blank on this one. Plus, I dislike Shino. And that's odd because I like everyone. Everyone except Shino. And Sasuke… And Raidou.

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7

The air is still inside the small room, but the scent is fresh and green; like earth and dog and just a hint of smoke underneath it all.

Shino's broad figure is nearly painted into the wall, his deliberate distance melting him into the background, as if he belonged there; as if he were a part of the place. And Kurenai thinks that perhaps on some level, he is. As much, at least, as anything else in the room is part of the place. From the corner of her eye, a shadow flickers, settles itself onto the couch.

Almost, she can see a young man's figure; hunched over and pressed into the worn cushions of the couch. When she turns her head, there's nothing there.

There is no TV, but an old beat-up radio is pushed against the wall on a small table in the corner, and the wide balcony window to the left is devoid of dressing; open to the view outside. The kitchen is stocked to the brim, still, with all manner of food; empty cartons of instant food products litter the counters. A low table sits in front of a ragged couch; the furniture all turned to face the window. Against another wall, and to the left of the bathroom, the rolled mat of a futon is leaned against the wall, as if it were rarely used.

Kurenai wanders toward the window; a mere ten paces from the kitchen, and stops to stare out at Konoha. The view is far from extraordinary - a simple scene of trees and field and in the distance, the great wall that surrounds the entire village.

It dawns on her then that the view is that of the field where she used to train team eight. The meadow where Kiba and Akamaru, Hinata, and Shino - and even she herself – built those bonds that kept them close, even so many years later. Her fists clench at the memory, and she isn't sure exactly what emotion is causing her breath to hitch.

Shino clears his throat and, without even a motion, manages to gesture to the open doorway. Kurenai turns slowly toward the whitewash of light that is the door. Kakashi's slim figure is silhouetted against the brightness; one shoulder leaned into the frame. He says nothing; instead, he simply nods his hello. Since Asuma's death, he'd made it a habit to drop in and check on her – every now and then.

Warm, cloth-wrapped flesh slips over her arm and Kurenai glances down; Kakashi's fingers encircle her thin wrist, bring it up to inspect the object clutched in her hand – she hadn't even noticed him approach. The photograph is crinkled, creased from her tight grip, but the faces in the picture are undamaged.

"They look happy." Kakashi's voice is thoughtful, kind. She focuses her eyes on the picture, on toothy smile and frowning lips, on bright white fur and two sets of flushed cheeks.

"We were celebrating his promotion to Jounin status." Shino's voice seems to come out of a fog, quiet and monotone; Kurenai knows that the lack of inflection is practiced, to hide emotions he does not wish to acknowledge. She glances up just in time to see the young man slip out of the door; in a blink he disappears into the blinding glow of daylight just outside the apartment.

In the brightness, she can almost see a tall, slim figure in the wavering blur of vivid light; wide, toothy smile cocked across a mouth made for humor and mischief. Kakashi shifts his body into her line of sight, and the vision falls away.

"He'll be okay. Hinata too." His voice is reassuring. Kurenai turns to glance back out the window, presses the crumpled photo to her stomach.

Almost, she can see a young boy and his dog racing through the lacy grass of the meadow. When she blinks, they are gone.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: I wish Hana had a bigger part in the Narutoverse. And: That last line… man, it gave me such hell! It gets the point across, but I am _no_t happy with it. Not really.

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8

The flesh is stiff and cold beneath the softness of fur; hollow feeling, like a husk. The fine whiteness is marred with the red-brown stain of battle and the burden of coming home; the color is brittle and flaky and feels rough against her palm.

Hana remembers the deafening call, the first howl – it had shattered the timid silence of Konoha as if it were made of delicate crystal. At least, she thinks, it shattered _her_ Konoha; shattered her. His voice had carried from miles away, drifted like windborne grief until it found her. The initial shock allowed only a moment of silence, a leaf's flight to the ground, and then it was a symphony.

Thinking of that… _song_, even now, drives her breathless.

There are only echoes left now, a haunting reverberation that ricochets on the walls of her mind; and a repeated refrain in the chorus of mourners that lope and stalk and drag, following her through the wood.

She wishes, for a moment, that she were deaf.

Hana scrubs her hand through her disheveled hair, growls low at the light that pushes its way into her eyes. The blindness only brings phantoms. The stark and sharp edged image of that great beast, worn and ragged and weak, and across his back something even more broken.

The titter of a bird cracks the image, breaks the silence; the sweetness of the sound turns Hana's stomach, and before she can think about her actions a shuriken is whistling through the air to imbed itself into the plump little body of a grey-brown bird. She watches the tiny creature plummet from branch to earth; its dull toned body quickly disappears in the camouflage of leaf litter. Her eyes blur suddenly, but she swallows hard and blinks away the warm haze.

Behind her, the soft steps of the pack echo against the hollowness of the wood, their keening a filler that ebbs and swells with each crunching step in the leaves. She doesn't turn; she can bear to watch them drag him.

Hana's feet step past the tiny corpse in the brush, the little bird whose oblivious happiness had won him death; it isn't as hidden as she thought it would be. Its yellow feet are curled to its body and its neck is bent at an awkward angle; the red triangle of its beak juts out brightly against the pale fawn-colored earth.

His cheek had been as pale, as cold as a patch of ground in the shade; hollow and heavy and stiff as clay. His hair though, even matted and filthy, had been feathery soft; not at all as she had expected. Blood had made his clothing stiff and brittle, and she had to cut it away to clean him; to stitch him. Hana pauses in her walk to glance down at her fingers, the tips are bruised from fumbling effort and repeated pricking – she had to clean her blood from his skin too.

That broken beast had watched her the entire time, silent and sad-eyed. And when everything was done, he'd tucked his head beneath a great paw and let himself go too.

A whine brings Hana from her memories and she turns to the pack. _Here_? The question is answered in a chorus. _Here_. The dogs circle and turn, milling in the dirt until the surface is broken and the rich scent of fresh, moist earth fills the air. They'll put him here.

When the gap in the earth is large enough, Hana turns away. She cannot watch them drag him.

She can't watch them drag the beast into his grave, because her eyes will only see her brother in his place.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: And I love the sand trio most of all. Well, at least equally to Kiba, Shikamaru, and Ino. – And Genma and Hana. Hmm, has that couple ever been done?

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9

Sand scuttled absently in the breeze, scraping in a hush across the landscape of Suna; its voice a whisper, and its breath a dry cough, more erosion than memory. Temari likes it that way; absent and empty and rough, just like the sand that keeps her skin soft and dry.

It's nothing like Konoha, with its long-lived trees, and the moist lingering memories – with leaves that fall and re-grow each season, and never forget. Nothing like the rain that falls to mourn death and sorrow, all tears for another memory that will mold and grow and remain. In Suna, the wind blows it all way.

Temari drags her fingers through the sand, drawing tiny sketches of people she hardly knew; people that somehow, still manage to wreck her composure just a little_. I didn't even know them. _She reminds herself silently, because her brothers are watching her. Her fingers, however, still trace those fleeting memories in the sand. A triangle, a drooping flower, a thin little figure with a wavy shadow. It makes her laugh; these are too insignificant, too silly to be respectful memories. And, she reminds her self: _I didn't even know them. _

Tomorrow, they leave Suna; her and both of her brothers. Not because the Kazekage of Suna _needs_ to be there, but because Gaara has changed, and he considered them friends, even if he didn't know them either. Perhaps, Temari figures, he did know them, and she just didn't realize it. So tomorrow, they leave for Konoha; they will travel without the company of guards, without the political procession. They will simply be three siblings on their way to say goodbye. Even though they didn't really know them.

Temari glances to her side and catches Kankuro staring at her. His eyes are creased with some unspoken question, but he doesn't ask; at least, he hasn't yet. She twitches a shoulder at him, and it feels like a spasm. Kankuro frowns at her, and she scowls at the concern she sees in his face.

"I think…" Gaara's voice is soft and scratchy, unused, still, to speaking; his words, too, are choppy and unsure. He is still learning to express himself. Temari watches Kankuro's eyes soften, watches him turn slowly to catch Gaara's profile. "I think I will miss them." A soft nod of his head shakes his red hair, punctuates the end of the sentence. Temari's fingers drag through her sand drawings as her hands tighten into fists. Her chest is suddenly heavy and she very nearly struggles in her next breath.

"You hardly knew them." Her voice is weakly disbelieving. Gaara's pale eyes turn to catch hers. It feels, to Temari, that his eyes are absorbing her, reading the book of secrets written beneath her skin. She looks away.

"They were just like us." Gaara tilts his head to the side as he stares at his sister; the frown on his lips is thoughtful. "They could have _been_ us." Somehow, that makes more sense than Temari would like.

"That will never be us." Temari's voice betrays her state; the words waver enough that Kankuro clears his throat, as if it were his voice that had broken. He shifts uncomfortably, uses his fingers and threads of chakra to bring life to one of his puppets. It dances across the sand without purpose.

"You knew one of them a little, didn't you?" Kankuro's voice is slow, deliberately accusatory. Temari watches the puppets shadow dance across the ground, the one crawling its way across the sand toward her; she draws her legs closer to her body and shifts away from the reaching shadow. When she's sure it can't touch her, she lifts her head to scowl at her brother.

"That guy…" Temari wipes her hand across the drawings in the sand, her fingers smear the squiggles harshly and they disappear into the ground. "I didn't really know any of them." Her voice is rough as she speaks, and, she hopes, betrays nothing more than annoyance. Kankuro shrugs, and his eyes linger on her face - perhaps a moment too long - before he turns to watch his puppet.

"I would have liked…" Gaara's voice breaks the silence. His sand whispers quietly at his feet, forming and reforming in indistinct images of people he barely knew. "to have known them better." Temari stares at the shifting sand swirling at her brother's side, and fights, for the second time that day, for her breath.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: And now for the end. Man, I did a crap job with this story. Sorry again. :D

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10

The rain slashed angrily against the windows of the Hokage's office, its wet slap and drum echoing against the glass panes. Tsunade's hands shake as she fills out the memorial certificates before her.

"Three more names…" Her voice is an angry whisper.

She presses the pen to paper and scribbles her authority, her guilt, across the page in the appropriate place. Her signature is an inky worm's trail across the parchment, black and thick and smeared into nearly illegible scrawl. A frown creases her face as she stares down at the nearly ruined certificate. For long moments, she is lost in thought, her mind twisting and turning and dancing backward. It had been _her_ voice that had sent those children to their deaths.

"Tsunade…" Shizune's voice is soft as she speaks the name. On any other day, she would use an honorific, a title, but at times like this - there is more peace in a personal space. Tsunade knows that it's Shizune's way of telling her that it's ok to be emotional, to be angry. Her fingers loosen on the pen and it falls to the desk with a sharp thud, the tip springing away to fall on the floor some distance away. Tsunade glares at the broken pen, fights the urge to crumple the freshly signed papers and shatter her desk.

"Shinobi are expendable, they are tools…" The words, Tsunade thinks, are a cruel mantra. Her fingers tighten on the edges of the papers and she lifts them from the desk, shoves them at Shizune. "Take them." She doesn't have to tell Shizune what to do with the papers; death is a common enough occurrence that they both know exactly what to do. Tsunade's eyes unfocus as she holds the papers aloft, her vision inward and distant; the blur of Shizune's hand enters her field of vision and removes the ecru smear of parchment.

The quiet click of a door brings Tsunade from her internal reflection. It was, she knew, her fault. All of it. If she had not been so demanding, so inflexible with the measure of the treaties - perhaps then those Grass Nin would not have rebelled; those… children would not have been sacrificed to political unrest. Those expendable children, those tools. _What a joke. _The trivialization of their lives burns into Tsunade's mind – she's reminded why she left, why she didn't want to be Hokage in the first place.

Politics dictate, she knows, that soldiers serve their patriotic function. That soldiers defend and preserve, and give their life on command; for their country, for their leaders, for duty and honor. Tsunade's fists press into the desk, and she feels the heavy wood give beneath her hands, just a little.

Children shouldn't be soldiers.

Tsunade shoves herself away from the desk, lifts her tense body from her chair. The wind whips the rain against the glass, forces itself through cracks like cool, moist breath; blows wet spatters past the frame to pool on the sill inside the office. She stares at the small misshapen puddle collecting on the sill; the blue-grey light of stormy sky reflects in the water – the shapes are distorted and small and faint. _They weren't children, they were Shinobi. _She tells herself this, in her head, but she's not convinced.

A soft roll of thunder crawls across the heavens, chases the tail of lightning, and she glances up at the rapidly darkening sky. In two days, the guests would arrive. There would be a funeral, a memorial. But those _children_ are already gone. Her hands fist against her side as she stares out the window_. Soldiers, Shinobi, not children_.

_They were never children. _


End file.
